Lucien's penthouse looked like it belonged in a museum dedicated to secrets. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books that crackled with age and meaning. Artifacts rested in glass cases — daggers, coins, scrolls, relics from civilizations long gone. It was a map of history, but rewritten, hidden in plain sight.
And now it was hers, too.
Amara stood in the center of the room, the obsidian shard still warm in her palm.
Lucien watched her with that same unreadable expression, but his posture was different now — looser somehow. As if her arrival had triggered something in him. Not just readiness. Relief.
She broke the silence.
"You said we always find each other. But what don't I know, Lucien? What haven't you told me?"
Lucien turned away, walked to a locked drawer beneath the display cases. When he opened it, he pulled out a velvet pouch.
Inside: a ring.
Amara's breath caught.
Silver. Black stone. Same spiral mark etched into its surface — the one from the door. The one from the vision.
"I gave this to you," he said. "Once. A long time ago. Before the Circle hunted us down. You wore it in every life after. Until now."
She stared at it. "Why don't I remember it?"
"Because in this life, they found you before I could. They fractured something in you. A memory block. Not physical — soul-deep. But it's breaking down. Slowly."
He stepped closer and handed her the ring.
She took it without hesitation and slid it onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
The moment the band touched her skin, a ripple shot through her — like a jolt of heat under her ribcage. For a second, she wasn't standing in Lucien's penthouse. She was somewhere else. A cliff. A storm. Her hands covered in blood, holding Lucien's head in her lap as he whispered something she couldn't hear.
And just like that — she was back.
Lucien caught her before she stumbled.
"Easy," he said.
She looked up at him, dazed but steady. "That was real."
"They always are," he said.
Amara swallowed hard. "Then show me how to fight."
Lucien's mouth lifted slightly. "I was hoping you'd say that."
The training room wasn't what she expected.
It was beautiful, in a brutalist kind of way — sleek floors, reinforced walls, no distractions. One side held weapons: blades, batons, even antique crossbows. The other held… stranger things. Objects with no name. Shapes she couldn't identify. One pulsed faintly with a glow that seemed to breathe.
Lucien picked up a dagger and tossed it to her. "First rule: they don't play fair. You shouldn't either."
Amara caught it by the hilt, tested the weight. Lighter than she expected.
"Second rule?" she asked.
Lucien smirked. "If your instincts say run, ignore them."
He stepped behind her, corrected her stance, adjusted her shoulders.
The moment his hand touched her back, another vision surged.
A candlelit room. Her back to his. Her voice steady as she whispered a spell she didn't recognize, while he stood guard at the door with a blade in hand. Then — a crash. Screaming. A circle drawn in salt.
She snapped back again, gasping.
Lucien stepped back quickly. "It's accelerating."
"These memories — they're coming too fast."
"No," he said. "They're coming right on time."
They trained for hours.
Lucien taught her how to wield the dagger, how to throw it. How to move when your body screams to freeze. How to breathe through fear. Her muscles burned. Her knuckles bled.
She didn't ask to stop.
Finally, long past midnight, they collapsed against the mirrored wall.
Lucien handed her a towel. "You didn't break."
Amara smiled faintly. "Not my first life."
A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or memory.
"I need to show you one more thing," he said.
He took her upstairs to the rooftop.
From there, the city stretched in every direction. But it wasn't the skyline he wanted her to see.
Lucien pointed to the northeast.
"There. That's where they've gathered. A new sanctum. Hidden in plain sight — a brownstone beneath a false name. I've tracked them for weeks. But I never approached. Not until I was sure you were ready."
Amara stared at the building in the distance. Her pulse quickened — not in fear, but anticipation.
"You think they're planning something?" she asked.
Lucien's jaw tightened. "They always are."
She turned toward him. "Then let's not wait."
He looked at her.
And smiled — not cold, not distant. Proud.
"Tomorrow night," he said. "We go in."
Just as he said it, the obsidian shard in her pocket burned white-hot.
She pulled it out. The rune was glowing.
Lucien stepped closer, frowning. "That only happens if—"
The wind shifted. The shadows on the rooftop flickered.
Behind them — the faintest whisper, low and inhuman.
"She's awakened."
Amara turned.
No one was there.
But the war had begun.